Those of us who like to pretend we are preoccupied with more important things than biscuit-related, floral print TV talent contests probably won’t be overly moved by the reappearance this week of Mary Berry, Paul Hollywood and 12 very, very eager cake enthusiasts. They won’t care about the 10 weeks of rising tension channelled into swirly icing and chocolate glazes. Their hearts won’t be wrenched asunder by baking tragedy, encapsulated by a lingering shot of some lumpy petits fours and ultimately soothed by plinky lullaby music and incidental twee. They couldn’t care less about Mel and/or Sue spitting cake puns through mouthfuls of nicked offcuts. Their minds aren’t troubled with thoughts of fondant, nor sausage rolls, fruit tarts and sheep among daisies, never mind grand houses in Berkshire and suet crust pastries, buttercream icing and sugared jam rings. These, as it happens, are precisely none of my favourite things – and yet I just can’t quit The Great British Bake Off (Weds, 8pm, BBC1).

It would be tempting to claim there’s a hidden cleverness or sinister edge to the show, but even screwing up your eyes and squinting hard for anything nefarious doesn’t yield a whole lot. Admittedly, Paul Hollywood seems like a man for whom regular vigorous kneading sorts out a lot of deep anger issues, but he’s pretty harmless, like a non-EU approved teddy bear which is only toxic to children if it’s on fire. “That’s a lot of flavours,” taunts Paul in the opening episode, peering with icy cold eyes into builder and dough fan Richard’s soul as he runs through his plans for a strawberry and pistachio Swiss roll. “It’s mainly strawberry and pistachio,” Richard shoots back without breaking a sweat.

Perhaps it is only a matter of time before Mary Berry, a woman with decades of baking expertise under her modish little Wallis belt, erupts in a similar boiling rage at the blithe attitudes held by some contestants towards convention. We almost see her crack when she and Hollywood have a nose at construction engineer Iain and – steady yourself – his highly unorthodox method of scoring a sponge. Fortunately Paul, perhaps seeing his own tormented psyche reflected in her eyes, recognises the warning signs and whisks Mary away before she can tear Iain a new one.

Then there’s the Union Jack bunting and jingoistic Great Britannia-decorated Battenbergs that have pebble-dashed each series. GBBO might raise the question of which murky figure is pushing all this gingham-heavy Great British prefix TV. In 50 years, will a paper be uncovered detailing a shady scheme to keep British subjects subservient with cakes and vintage-style pluck? Is the Women’s Institute actually a militaristic training cell? It’s possible Mary Berry is in fact a trojan behemoth, and viewers might wonder what dark secrets she’s hiding as a highly strung web administrator from Kettering furiously puts the finishing touches to a multi-tiered woodland-themed Genoese sponge. But really, the answer is nothing. Just wide expanses of inoffensive pleasantness so strong that if any of the bloody really jolly nice people on the show were to drop their grins, their overexerted jowls would fall straight into their cake mix.

This year’s hopefuls fit the usual pattern: piff bakerettes whose charms are only enhanced by a stuffy marquee “glow” and icing sugar in their hair: cool grans; hip twentysomethings you’d be surprised could competently make a cuppa but then turn out 36 immaculate macaroons; single-minded baking masters with dossiers on Nigella cross-referenced with the entire Good Food archive; and those whose love of baked goods places them more towards the excited labrador end of the enthusiasm spectrum, while the crumb of their talent is a little on the dry side. It’s hard not to love. Keep calm and eat it up.

Sam Wollaston: Bake Off, with its turgid puns and carefully calibrated intake, is a tedious village fete turned into TV. Or it's like a cake, comforting and familiar, depending which side of the sofa you are on